The Accidental Agent

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘There was,’ said one of the women. ‘It’s moved to the President’s house. Pastor Simms is presenting a petition to Hutchins.’

  He came out on to Woodlawn Avenue and started to walk the two blocks to the President’s house near the corner of 59th Street. He had almost reached the tennis courts at 58th, by the entrance to the main Quadrangle of the university, when he noticed Stacey’s car parked on the street, and looking up saw Stacey herself coming his way. She was walking with an older Negro man, a tall, dignified figure in a herringbone overcoat. He was nursing a large plum-coloured bruise on his forehead, and was letting Stacey steer him by the arm towards her car. When she saw Nessheim she called out, ‘This is Reverend Simms. I want to get him in the car so he can sit down.’

  Nessheim came and held the minister by the arm while Stacey rummaged for her keys. When she’d opened the passenger’s door, she took the Reverend’s other arm and with Nessheim’s help got him on to the front seat. He looked exhausted.

  Stacey closed the door carefully and Nessheim said, ‘What happened?’

  ‘Some thugs followed us to the President’s house. They tried picking fights with the men in our group. There was a university cop at the front door but he didn’t do a thing – probably because the hooligans were all in uniform. I was inside with Reverend Simms delivering a petition to President Hutchins, but when we came out these thugs were still there.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m going to drive the Reverend home, then go to my place for a bit. Why don’t you come over tonight? It would give me time to do some laundry. Drusilla’s been sick all week.’

  ‘All right, but are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes. If I’d known it’d get violent, I would have stayed away.’

  He didn’t believe this for a minute. ‘How did the Reverend get that big welt?’

  She said, ‘Everybody else had left, and I was bringing the Reverend along, when the sailors started throwing snowballs at us. I asked them to stop, but they just laughed. No big deal, except one of the snowballs had a rock inside.’ She gestured at Simms. ‘I’ve never been called a nigger lover before.’

  He said, ‘I wish I’d been there.’ He was certain Pug Face had been one of the assailants.

  ‘I’m glad you weren’t or there would have been a real fight.’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Why? What would you have done?’

  ‘I’d have shot them.’

  ‘Jim! Don’t say that.’ But she was smiling.

  ‘I’m not going to let anyone touch the woman of my dreams.’

  ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’

  ‘Nope. No veal kidneys for me. Just clams.’ He made a face and she laughed. She kissed him goodbye, and he was glad he hadn’t told her that he’d left his gun at home.

  He watched her drive off with the wounded Reverend, then walked to Kimbark Avenue. As he reached the courtyard of his building, he saw a bulky man ahead of him, heading for his entryway. In street shoes, the man was having a hard time of it, slipping with almost every step.

  Nessheim called out, ‘If you’d told me you were coming, I could have warned you about the snow.’

  Guttman turned around. ‘I thought I’d packed my galoshes. I was wrong.’

  30

  THEY SAT UPSTAIRS in the apartment’s living room. Nessheim had closed the bedroom door when they came in, since Stacey’s nightgown lay spread across the bed like an invitation. Guttman declined a beer and sat down, then looked around. ‘You’ve spruced this place up since I was out here.’

  Had he? Nessheim looked around as well. There was a Cubist reproduction that Stacey had put up on one wall, a new standing lamp with a deco shade, and a pair of small but swanky armchairs with leather seats and steel tube frames which Stacey had brought over from her apartment. Nessheim realised how much the place had been improved, and how none of it was down to him.

  But Nessheim didn’t want to talk about the decor. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve found something out.’ He explained what he had learned from Fermi about Grant’s role in the appointment of Kalvin. ‘We need to confront Kalvin and get him off the project. He’s away in New Mexico with Oppenheimer, but he should be back any day now. Only Groves can get rid of Kalvin and he won’t listen to me. But he will listen to you.’

  To Nessheim’s astonishment Guttman seemed only mildly interested.

  ‘Harry,’ Nessheim said sharply, ‘we have to act. Fermi says the work at Stagg Field is reaching a critical point.’

  ‘Sure, kid,’ said Guttman, but he still seemed abstracted. Nessheim had seen this vague look before: when Isabel was going through a bad patch, a distant expression would settle on Guttman’s face like an anodyne mask.

  But then he seemed to come to, and he sat up on the couch. He rubbed his hands like a surgeon prepping for an operation, and looked intently at Nessheim, as if some internal decision had been made. He said, ‘I’ve been thinking how to break this to you since I got on the train in Washington. I’m no actor and I haven’t found an easy way.

  ‘You know, since Isabel died I’ve come to realise that we all need somebody, one special somebody. When you’re young – in college, say, and for a few years after that – that’s the time for playing the field. Though even then, you may find your partner for life. I did, and I was fortunate. Because even if you’ve had a lot of luck with the ladies, sooner or later you realise that unless you have a special partner, life is just so goddamned lonely.’

  He’s talking about himself, Nessheim thought; he’s talking about life after Isabel. Nessheim wondered where Guttman was heading with this, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt uneasy.

  ‘They say love makes you blind,’ Guttman continued. He took a deep breath, his eyes trained on Nessheim like headlights. ‘I think that’s what happened here. Because in my experience, the best infiltrations require a fall guy or a patsy.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Nessheim asked, disconcerted. Guttman could be wrong about things and Guttman could be pig-headed, but Guttman always made sense.

  ‘I’m not blaming you at all but facts are facts.’

  Nessheim suddenly had an intimation where this was heading. ‘So far I haven’t heard any,’ he snapped.

  ‘Heard any what?’ asked Guttman, taken aback.

  ‘Facts.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Guttman mildly, taking the reprimand in his stride. But then his jaw set and his expression hardened, and Nessheim saw that any hesitancy was gone.

  ‘Somebody figured you early on, Jim. It’s still a mystery to me who it was, except I don’t think it was anybody here, and I know it wasn’t the Bund. Thanks to Stephenson, I’ve got a lead on that, but however it happened, once they knew you were on the case, they used that information to play you like a fish.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Nessheim. ‘I thought I was doing a pretty good job. And who’s this “they” anyway?’

  ‘The Soviets,’ Guttman said simply. ‘Our allies. They’ve been very clever. Originally they planted the idea in the White House that the Nazis had someone undercover here in Stagg Field. That was their high-level diversion, and it worked – the White House were alarmed by what they’d learned because they were convinced Germany was trying to build a bomb, too. So they had Frankfurter ask me to look into it unofficially. They didn’t go through channels because Hoover knows nothing about the work going on here and they wanted to keep it that way.

  ‘After seeing Frankfurter, I was sceptical, to be honest, and it turned out I was right to be – Stephenson’s people have confirmed that the Germans aren’t building anything remotely along the lines of what we’re trying to build. But initially I couldn’t be sure of this, so that’s why I recruited you to have a look-see. The Russians must have been alarmed when they found out you were here. They knew you from LA and knew you were good at your job – they would have been worried you’d find their infiltrator in Fermi’s Met Lab group. A
nd sure enough you did.’

  ‘Kalvin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nessheim said, ‘Why didn’t the Russians kill me? That would have taken care of the problem.’

  ‘I’m sure they considered it, but you’d already proved hard to kill – they’d tried once before out in California. And they were also smart enough to realise that killing you would just confirm my suspicions – as far as they knew, I’d send somebody else in your wake.’ He added ruefully, ‘How would they know I didn’t have anybody else to send?

  ‘But then they did the next best thing – reinforce the idea that it was the Germans who were spying. That was the purpose of the “Rossbach” note. And that coincided with the arrival of someone ordered to get close to you.’

  ‘Coincided?’ asked Nessheim. He knew now where Guttman was headed, but wanted to delay his progress and gather his wits. It was otherwise too awful to think about.

  Then Guttman said abruptly, ‘It wasn’t a coincidence. She set you up.’

  ‘Watch it, Harry,’ Nessheim said, and he meant it.

  Guttman opened both hands, but it was not conciliatory.

  ‘Time for the facts then,’ Nessheim declared. ‘There still haven’t been any.’

  If Guttman was piqued by this, he didn’t show it, but merely pursed his lips. He said, ‘Your friend was a member of the Communist Party, joining in 1931 while attending the U of C as an undergraduate. She was an active member, and attended regional and national meetings.’

  Nessheim said, ‘Harry, I know that Stacey was a Red.’ Was that really the basis for all this? Nessheim started to relax a little. ‘I also know she left the Party years ago. People change. Don’t let your prejudices get in the way of seeing that.’

  Guttman said patiently, ‘I do know people can change. Isabel was a Trotskyite when I met her.’

  Nessheim said, ‘Stacey was a Trot too. She couldn’t have stayed in the CP even if she’d wanted to. The Stalinists hate Trotsky more than they hate Hitler.’

  ‘Then how is it she rejoined the CP last year?’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I can show you the file. It’s not hearsay – it’s the Party’s own list of the Hollywood branch members.’

  Nessheim was stunned. He tried to think of ways to disprove this – even if it were only to himself. ‘It might have been a mistake,’ he said tentatively.

  Guttman nodded. ‘Sure. That seems to me to stretch the bounds of probability. But it is possible.’

  This was said too disarmingly. Nessheim stared at Guttman. ‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’

  ‘There is. While she was in LA, Stacey married a man named George Tweedy, who dabbles as a movie producer. He’s loaded.’

  ‘I know about Tweedy. He’s not going to be her husband for long. She’s divorcing him.’

  ‘Really?’ Guttman asked, but it didn’t sound genuine.

  ‘Yes, really. He’s in Reno right now. The divorce will be coming through any day.’

  ‘That’s funny. Our source reports that Tweedy was at a dinner in LA the other night, a fundraiser for Soviet citizens.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Since a photograph of him at the dinner was in the Los Angeles Times, you may want to revise your view.’

  Nessheim was starting to struggle. A counteroffensive was out of the question; all he could hope for was a truce while he digested this information. Why would Stacey lie to him about divorcing Tweedy? He asked, ‘If she’s still with Tweedy, then why come here? It doesn’t suggest a match made in heaven.’

  ‘It suggests another mission for her. She’d already been to Mexico for six months without Tweedy, and that was after they were married. There’s nothing romantic about the Russian intelligence people. You know that.’

  ‘What was she doing in Mexico?’ Maybe at least he’d solve that mystery.

  ‘Who knows? But it was for the Soviets.’

  Nessheim thought about this for a moment. ‘Something doesn’t ring true. Stacey showed up here for the very first time right after you and Groves left. I hadn’t even agreed to do anything for you yet – don’t you remember? If I didn’t know I was going to be working for you again, how the hell could Stacey know that?’

  ‘That’s easy enough. Russian intelligence people in the NKVD – that’s their FBI – would have kept tabs on you when you left California. You’d killed one of their men, so they weren’t about to forget you. I bet they followed you all the way to Chicago. And they’d assume you were still working for the Bureau, and probably still working for me. The law school stuff was just a cover, they’d have thought. It wouldn’t have even occurred to them that you’d left the Bureau. People don’t resign from the NKVD.’

  ‘But what would they hope to gain by having Stacey re-enter my life?’

  ‘You tell me. Does she know anything about what you’ve been doing?’

  ‘A bit,’ he admitted. He wasn’t going to lie to Guttman; to his consternation, his own doubts were growing.

  ‘Has she met any of Fermi’s group?’

  ‘She and Mrs Fermi have become friends.’

  ‘I bet they have,’ said Guttman.

  Nessheim didn’t know what to say. His initial puzzlement had turned to anger, but now when Guttman got up to use the bathroom, he sat still, feeling overwhelmed by what he had been told. Stacey wasn’t an ex-Communist; she had actually rejoined the Party. If the evidence for this was the Party’s own membership roster, that seemed incontrovertible. As for George Tweedy, it seemed indisputable he wasn’t fulfilling the Nevada sixty-day residency requirements, a violation which you would never chance for the sake of a dinner – if discovered you’d have to start your residency all over again.

  Doubts of his own came to mind, which he could not suppress. What had made Stacey suddenly decide to go to law school, and at Chicago – two thousand miles from LA? Even Fielding had seemed puzzled by this last-minute application; he’d noted Stacey’s apparent lack of interest in the law.

  Then there was the break-in of his apartment. The intruder hadn’t forced his way in; he had used a key. There was only one spare key, which Stacey said she’d replaced in its hiding place beneath the back stairs. It simply wasn’t credible to think the intruder would have ‘found’ it there – it was too well hidden. Instead he must have been told where it was, and used it to get in, knowing that Nessheim and Stacey were out that night. Only Stacey could have told him that.

  He was starting to feel sick – nausea and a sudden wave of flu-like ache swept over him. These were facts, all right, and they weren’t even supplied by Guttman. But there was something even more terrible than facts which he had to confront.

  Why had Stacey taken such a run at him? Why had she taken him up if it was not in order to take him in? Forty acres of hay-bearing fields and an orchard – my ass. He was in love with her, which meant he had been naively willing to believe that she loved him too. This woman, beautiful, wealthy and smart as a whip, could have any man in the world she wanted. Was it really credible that Stacey Madison would fall in love with him, football has-been, former Special Agent and neophyte law student? He had swallowed it whole – forty acres and all.

  He had his head in his hands when Guttman returned and handed him a glass of whisky and water. Nessheim mutely nodded his thanks and drained it. He said, fearing his voice would break, ‘Get me another one, will you?’

  ‘Have it after I’m gone.’ Guttman paused a beat, his voice now gentle. ‘I’m sorry, Nessheim, but I had no choice.’

  ‘What set you on to her?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ And of course to Guttman all that mattered was whether it was true.

  ‘So where do we go from here?’ Nessheim asked. There was comfort in pretending that his life had not just been ripped apart.

  ‘I’m off to Stagg Field to see Fermi. I called him before I came here. Groves has given me authority to do whatever I need to do. I agree with you that Kalvin’s got to go, and that
will happen as soon as he’s back from New Mexico.’

  ‘Do you want help from me?’ He didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be.

  ‘I will do. You know the set-up here, and I don’t. Then at some point, we need to think how all this came about.’

  ‘Do you want her arrested?’ Nessheim was grateful that he could say this steadily.

  ‘There’s nothing to charge her with, is there? She told you a pack of lies, but as far as we know she hasn’t done any damage herself – she’s just got us to take our eye off the ball.’

  ‘My eye, I think you mean.’ He knew Guttman was being kind, but he didn’t want sympathy right now.

  ‘You can find me at Stagg Field. Or where I’m staying. It’s the faculty place.’

  ‘The Quadrangle Club?’

  Guttman seemed embarrassed. ‘Groves got Compton to arrange it.’

  Then Guttman grabbed his coat from the chair. He stood there for a moment, looking as though he wanted to apologise. But they both knew he had nothing to apologise for.

  Nessheim didn’t have another whisky while he sat and thought of what to do. He was supposed to go over to Stacey’s swanky apartment for a change, and if he didn’t go she would no doubt come over – he’d given her back the key from under the stairs. He didn’t want that; he didn’t want to see her that evening, or any other time.

  He had to tell her this. He found the box of stationery he used for writing to his mother, or the bank, and sat down with it at the dining-room table, pushing his law books off in one angry sweep.

  In the letter he wrote, his feelings poured out in a cascade of anger and bewilderment. His bitterness grew with the recital of her lies. An hour later he would have been hard-pressed to recall the exact language he used, but the tone was poisonous and adamant. He didn’t want to see her ever again.

  Before he would let time temper his emotions, he found an envelope and sealed the letter inside. He went out and drove to her apartment building, gave three bucks to the doorman to deliver it by hand, then headed home, where this time after half a bottle of whisky he found reprieve, if no solace, in sleep.